


Walking Down a Dead End

by primetime



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primetime/pseuds/primetime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Split up?" Dean had said, wiping the grease from his tacos onto a napkin. "Like, you wanna go talk to her girlfriend while I break into the storage building?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking Down a Dead End

"You know we have to," Sam says, shoving his dirty laundry into his duffel bag.

"Yeah, I know," says Dean. He focuses on collecting the tiny containers of shampoo and soap out of the motel bathroom. This place is stupid enough to leave extras under the sink, so Dean is pretty much set for toiletries for the next couple of months.

When he looks up at the open bathroom door, Sam is looming there, arms crossed. "Seriously, Dean. You know I don't want to do this any more than you do."

"I know," Dean says, and tries to push past him without dropping any of the little bottles. Sam puts himself in the way, though- and when did Sam get so freaking broad, anyways- and Dean stops. "I know, Sammy. I know. It just- sucks, is all."

Sam lets him by, and Dean hurries over to his bag. When all the bottles are tucked away, Dean stares down at his messy piles of clothes and scratches at the back of his neck. There's a pointed silence in the room, and it makes Dean say. "What do you want me to say, Sam? Am I supposed to be frigging happy about us, you know-"

"Splitting up?" Sam interrupts.

Dean has to take a second to breathe, before he can talk past the tightness in his chest. "Yeah."

"Well, I just want you to promise me you won't hunt," Sam says.

"I already said, Sam," Dean starts.

"And that you'll eat something besides cheeseburgers every once in a while," Sam says.

"No promises," Dean tries again.

Sam's in his face now, pulling Dean around with a hand on his bicep. "And you'll make some real friends, not just girls that you- you know."

That's a step too far. "What the hell, dude, I can manage my own freaking social life. Relax, okay?" Dean says. Dean spent years making Sammy's lunches and walking him to school and paying for his prom ticket, and now Sam's gonna lecture him about taking care of himself? Bullshit. He finishes zipping up his bag, and then there's nothing left to do.

There's an awkward moment at the door when they both try to walk through at the same time, but Sam stands back and Dean shrugs and stomps out.

"I'll drop you off at the bus station," Dean says, sliding into the driver's seat.

"I still don't know why you get the car," Sam wheedles hesitantly.

Dean doesn't even dignify that with a response. He refrains from patting the dashboard, barely.

 

 

When he drives away from the bus station, he watches Sam get smaller in the rear view mirror until he almost runs a red light. Dean keeps his eyes on the road the rest of the way east.

 

 

The Feds had started tracking them in earnest again. They fucking finally caught a break with Hendrickson, and a new demon had to blow him up. Of fucking course.

They were just too easy to spot- two guys traveling together, one freakishly tall, the other freakishly good-looking, if Dean did say so himself. And then their faces were plastered next to each other in police stations and crappy convenience stores all over the southeast, through Georgia and Alabama and Mississippi, even up in Tennessee. They'd had a few too many close calls, darting out of motels just in time to see ten local police cruisers show up.

Sam had been the one to say it out loud, finally.

"Split up?" Dean had said, wiping the grease from his tacos onto a napkin. "Like, you wanna go talk to her girlfriend while I break into the storage building?"

"No," Sam had huffed, "Not about the case, I mean. Us. For a while."

Dean's face must have given his feelings about that idea away, because Sam had started talking fast, telling Dean stuff he already knew about the cops and witnesses and way too many close calls.

Dean had paused, wiped his greasy hands on a napkin. He had put it down next to his plate. "So, you know, how long?"

"Maybe six months."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dean had said, with feeling. He had stared down at his plate, looking at the little blue vine designs around the edges.

Sam had waited, not entirely patiently.

"Yeah, okay."

 

 

Dean goes east. Sam had suggested they keep their locations to themselves, which, fuck that.

"You gonna give me up to the cops?" Dean had demanded.

"C'mon, Dean, no!" Sam had been pretty red in the face by that point.

"You think I'm gonna give you up?"

"No, Dean- just, wouldn't it be safer?"

"Safer?" Dean had yelled, "Me not knowing where on god's green earth you are? Knowing how quick you get into trouble? Yeah, that's pretty fucking safe, Sam. Just, fucking- no-"

"Okay," Sam had said. "Okay, Dean."

So Sam's going to Carson City, Nevada. He likes deserts, has always liked lots of sun to stretch out in, warm those long bones.

Dean's going to North Dakota, where there's a whole lot of nothing. A couple hills, some snow, and a bunch of farmers. Probably a few Canadians dropping by, maybe even Canadian hunters. Dean's never met one, but Dad used to joke that Canada had a socialized hunting system. "Not like us, Dean," Dad would say, ruffling his hair when Dean was still little enough to allow it, "We're private contractors."

Dean closes his eyes against the glare of the sun through the windshield, fumbling for his sunglasses.

 

 

Every morning, Dean gets up at four. He has a piece of toast, bangs at the piece of shit coffee machine he got for twenty bucks at a run-down yard sale, and goes to work.

There weren't any mechanic or construction jobs available- though he made the guy at the repair shop next door promise to call him if anybody quit- so Dean applied for this crappy delivery guy job. He picks up his assignments at the Me-to-Thee Courier, and then spends the next nine hours driving around in some dumpy old truck that's always breaking down. At least there's a tape deck.

It's weird, to have all this money coming in and nothing to spend it on. He worked part-time as a kid, sure, and then after he'd picked up his GED when Sam was still in school, but that usually went to food and rent and new sneakers (well, new from Goodwill) and school trips for Sammy. Now he's living in this dirt-cheap hick town, and he can only buy so many really expensive sandwiches before it stops feeling like a well-deserved luxury and starts feeling like a waste.

He picks up more shells, restocks the Impala's trunk, replaces the tires and upholstery. Starts tipping excessively well- Dean's worked food service, it sucks. Gets a second pair of boots, and one pair in Sam's size, just in case. They run into all kind of gross oozing shit, doing this job.

Eventually he just has to say fuck it and start saving. Can't hurt, anyways, so he puts the money in a lockbox in the Impala's trunk. It'll do them some good in the future, some night when the cards stop working and the hustling runs out. Dean's sick of sleeping in the Impala, anyways. Sam's feet always end up in his face, knees jabbing into his spine, and he's been snoring since he hit thirteen, too. Can't drown him out with the music on high, even if he was gonna leave the Impala running all night- and he would never, Dean thinks, patting the dashboard.

He throws darts, some nights, at a bar six blocks over. It's a dive, even by Winchester standards, but Dean's just there to waste his time away. The nights drag out on the days he doesn't go.

He bought a television in the fourth week, just to have some noise in the house. The weapons are the cleanest they've ever been. His boots are shined. He can recite all the lyrics to every tape he owns, even the crappy ones Sam and Dad used to buy him as joke gifts. Fucking Genesis and that shit. Dean's so fucking tired of this shit.

So he goes to the bar, plays a little pool, hustles small stakes just for kicks, not enough to get thrown out. It's kind of sad to be there three nights a week, though, with all the other losers who end up there because there's no one waiting back at home, or no one they care about enough to stick around for.

Some nights, when Dean stumbles home, just wasted enough to have trouble with the lock, he doesn't go to bed. He just sits on the crappy couch in the crappy apartment until he passes out, because something about crawling into the single bed to listen to the sound of nobody breathing makes him flinch.

 

 

He usually talks to a few people at the bar, a couple regular faces who he knows pretty well. Though, hey, they probably think they know him too, and they couldn't guess half the shit he's done if he spelled it out for them in crappy bar peanuts. They talk a lot about getting a poker night going. Dean's never really stayed in one place long enough to join clubs or shit like that. When he thinks about going to the bar on a regular schedule, starting to look forward to those nights just for some god damn human company, Dean knows he'll never join up, much as he likes the game.

Dean did this, once before- and it wasn't easy but it was fine, so he thinks it should probably be easier this time, an easier slide back into cooking dinner for one and not throwing comments back over his shoulder. It's not easier, really, and he's always tired but never enough to sleep.

 

 

When Dean hears from Ellen about the thing in Carson City, he sends word to Bobby- a day, a time, the number of a nearby pay-phone. Sam's three minutes late, calling, and that's probably what makes Dean seize at the phone so quick he almost drops it.

"Hey, Dean," Sam says, like he's already anticipating a fight.

"So what," Dean says, giving it to him, "the rules don't apply to you? Is that it?"

Sam's trying to placate him, talking in that patronizing tone like he knows better, his hands probably outstretched even though Dean is half a country away.

"No, Sam," Dean snaps. "This is bullshit. You aren't going to hunt without me-"

"I can help people, on small jobs-"

"You aren't going to hunt without me!"

Sam's silent for a minute, sighing into the phone. If Dean knows Sam, and he fucking does, Sam's running a hand over his face right now, trying to think his way out of this.

"I hear of you doing one more job," Dean says into the phone, holding it close to his mouth and spitting the words out, "and this whole fucking thing is over. You know I'll end it, Sam."

"Fine," Sam says, cranky, like Dean's being an inconvenience.

"Yeah, it better be fine," Dean says, fingers still white around the phone.

Sam hangs up, and even though Dean was expecting it, it's still a shock to the chest. He puts the pay-phone down, just rests there in the booth for another minute, breathing hard. Dean has questions- so many fucking questions- do you have enough money? Have you had any close encounters with the Feds? Did you shave your head like I suggested?

Are you lonely.

"You gonna stand there all day, buddy?" comes a husky voice from behind, and Dean wipes his face and goes.

 

 

Dean hates his breakfast. At the grocery store, he hates the girl who rings up his groceries, the guy who bumps into him in the aisle and apologizes with a faint French accent. He almost punches out the asshole in front of him who doesn't hold the door open for a mom with a stroller.

At work, he spends half the day taking smoke breaks next to the truck. His boss gets pissed off at how much he's slacking. He hates him, too.

When Dean gets home, he accidentally drops the last vial of holy water Pastor John had given them before he'd been murdered, and it breaks all over the floor. Dean sits down abruptly- more collapses, if he's being honest, and he's not- in the puddle on the kitchen floor, ignoring the way the cold water soaks into his jeans.

He wants his brother back, so fucking badly. He wants his fucking Dad, and his fucking Mom, who never should have died in the first place, and he wants Cassie, who he'd loved so fucking much, and more than anything, he wants Sam to want to come back.

Dean lets his head fall back against the cabinets, closes his eyes and wishes for something to fight. Instead, he gets up, knees still wet, and leaves the front door standing open and unlocked when he heads out to the nearest bar.

 

 

"Hey," Sam says, face floating above him. The world's kind of blurry around the edges. Lots of white, muted green.

"Hey," Dean tries to say back. He ends up trying to hack out a lung instead.

"Dean!" Sam says, urgent, but the need in his little brother's voice isn't enough to keep Dean from slipping back under.

 

 

The next time Dean wakes up, Sam is still there, sleeping in a chair with his feet up on Dean's cot. The hospital window's blinds are drawn, so Dean can see the sun passing under the horizon.

"Sam," Dean calls, trying to tug his hand free from the tangle of blankets and wires, sluggish with what feels like some heavy-duty meds. "Sam."

"Dean," Sam says, jerking awake. "Oh, fuck, Dean- how long have you been- I didn't mean to-"

"What the hell happened?" Dean says, trying to remember. "And aren't you supposed to be in- in-" fuck, he can't even remember. His head feels fuzzy.

"You were in a car accident," Sam says,

"The couple who hit you- they found Bobby's number in your cell, and- Dean, they said you came out of nowhere," Sam says, and then he's burying his face in the cheap hospital sheets covering Dean's thigh. Dean hesitates, a little unsure, but he buries one hand in Sam's hair and soothes him, IV tugging as he tries to hush his brother.

By the time Sam pulls himself together, Dean is wiping a little at his own face.

"You're such an idiot," Sam says.

"Yeah," says Dean, looking up at the way his brother's face is blank.

"You were drunk," Sam says, firm, "And you stepped out- what a stupid- fucking- accident," and leans in to press a kiss to the top of Dean's head, like Dean is some four-year-old kid.

"Thanks for coming," Dean says, rough.

"Yeah, no problem," Sam says, dry, and leans in to kiss his mouth, sudden and brief, stale from long hours of waiting.

"Thanks," Dean says, again, looking up at his brother. He's so tired. They'll- they can deal with this later, because Sam's hand is on his shoulder and it's warm and heavy, pulling him down, and Dean is almost out for the count.

 

 

"Let's go," Sam says, hoisting up his brother. "You can make it to the car, right? I figure we can make it to the Montana border by tomorrow-"

"We?" Dean says, keeping his hope pinned low.

"Yeah," Sam says, eyes averted. "It's been long enough."

"Are you sure," Dean asks, wanting to punch himself right in the mouth, to shut himself up. "It's only been-"

"It's been long enough," Sam says, looking a little less tired, a little brighter, resting a hand on the back of Dean's neck.

"Yeah," Dean says, looking away, and lets himself lean into his brother.


End file.
